It is a line she has never heard from her mother. That everyone in her family is occupying the same space and that none of them knows about the silver gum wrapper in Hadia’s pocket, or where her mind goes, is intensely pleasing to her. She thinks of Abbas Ali. Of the color of his eyes, hazel, striking against his lightly tanned skin, a rarity in their community. Everyone is fascinated by the Ali family, their wealth and their stature, how they came from a line of esteemed scholars and politicians, their latest and loveliest fashions. But Hadia has noticed with sad curiosity how often positive things about them were discussed in a negative tone. When she first began to understand jealousy, it was the comments she had heard Mumma say to Baba about Seema Aunty that came to mind: Did you see the purse she was holding, it is haram, that kind of excessiveness. Did you notice how highly she spoke of her children’s independence, without once mentioning it is only because she is always at work? If she doesn’t wear hijab, how will she ever expect her daughter to? Always a different lipstick shade, sunglasses atop her head, blue jeans. Beauty is meant to be concealed, not indulged in.
And yet not one community member ever turned down an invitation to the Alis’ home, nor did anyone deny themselves the pleasure of their presence at their own parties, a presence that made them feel both big and small at the same time. She wasn’t sure what the parents did exactly, how they had so much money—the father was a doctor of a special kind, the mother designed clothes in India before moving to California, and she had continued doing so in the garage of their home until the business flourished. She owned stores across the States. She was one of the few mothers who was successful at work. Most mothers stayed at home. Almost all of Hadia’s and Huda’s Indian clothes had been bought from her boutiques. Overpriced, her mother would say, before purchasing it anyway, because their family, and many others in the community, always received a discount. Seema Aunty was never in the store, which made Hadia wonder exactly what it was that she did. There were four children in the family—three sons and one daughter, Amira Ali, a pretty and charming seven-year-old girl, with dark hair and rounded eyes, hazel, the exact hue of her brother’s. Many of the older community girls were kind to her, and the adults too, because she spoke fluent Urdu and was not afraid to be witty, to joke with them as if she were their age, and she had not yet reached the age when that would be considered rude, when they would begin to discourage that kind of banter. She was not told to shush like other girls were. Hadia wondered if the girls her age were kind to her in the hope that her older brother would one day notice them. For this reason, Hadia was only as nice to her as she would be to any other girl, extending no special treatment. The other boys of the family—Kumail and Saif—were fine enough, but they were shadows of their eldest brother, Abbas. They often walked on either side of him. And all three of them banded together to protect Amira, which was another reason why no one dared to treat her unkindly. Once a boy had been throwing things in the corridors of the mosque and something hit her. A small gash appeared at the edge of her eyebrow. Everyone still exaggerated the blood, Amira’s cries, and the reaction of the eldest Ali boy who, rumor had it, pushed the boy against the wall and threatened to knock his teeth out if he ever threw anything in the hallways again. But Hadia did not like to think of him in that way—as someone with a temper. She liked to think of him walking with his little sister on his shoulders, as she sometimes saw them do, and how Amira would hold on to his neck, and how this too had endeared him to Hadia, how of course she could care for a boy who knew how to be kind to a sister, of course someone like that would be safe to love.
Amar walks up to her on tiptoe and announces, “I’m taller than you now.”
He sticks his chest out and holds his hand to his forehead as if to salute her. Hadia pushes him a little so he falls back on both feet.
“No, you’re not,” she says. The day her younger brother would grow taller than her loomed. She knew it would be a strange, embarrassing transition and she feared it would also transform the way they thought of one another, related to one another.
“Am too,” he says.
Mumma notices their quibble. She stops pouring the tomato dish into a clear bowl and wipes her hand on a towel. All right then, she says, and she forces them to stand back-to-back. Amar complies eagerly, his new confidence already beginning to annoy her. Huda stops putting the plates on the table to watch. The crinkle of a turning newspaper page cuts the air. Hadia looks to the ceiling and sends a quick, short prayer to God, Please, do not let him grow taller than me just yet. After placing her hand on both of their heads and shoulders, stepping close to them and then farther away, Mumma declares, “Hadia is still taller. But not for very long.”
Mumma winks at Amar and he leaps into the air. Mumma catches him in her arms and tousles his hair before walking back into the kitchen. Hadia rolls her eyes and turns to busy herself with the task of filling glasses with water, but not before noticing Baba, still staring at the newspaper spread out before him on the coffee table. He is smiling to himself in a way Hadia has not seen before, gentle and grateful even, for the newfound height of his son.
* * *
AMAR CANNOT STOP thinking of Amira and their unfinished conversation. He wonders if he is the only one who has returned to their exchange and if they will have another like it. He wants to call Abbas, just so he can go over to their house, glimpse her walking across the landing—but he decides against it. He cares too sincerely for Abbas to seek him out for a false reason. Instead, he shoots hoops in his front yard, returns to their questions and answers and catalogs what he now knows: she loves mornings, she stares out of her window at a single streetlight when she cannot sleep, she is brave, and because of this, beautiful.
Days pass and his mother begins to plan a jashan for Hadia, who will soon be on break from college. Three years ago, Hadia was accepted into a combined undergraduate and premed program, with the possibility of continuing on to med school under the condition that she work hard and distinguish herself. Recently, she had called home with the news that she had gotten the grades and test scores and faculty recommendations necessary to continue. His parents are so proud of her. He overhears his father talk about her any chance he gets to family friends who visit or to the grocery store clerk who asks a simple question out of courtesy. Even Mumma calls Sara Khala on the phone and brags and brags—but they never tell Hadia. Only say to her, good, that is good, finish soon and come home again. Amar never shows his parents his report cards. He only hopes to do well enough to graduate. Thinking of his future sometimes felt like looking down a long tunnel, and even if he squinted he could hardly picture what his life would be like when he stepped out at the other end.
Usually, he hated when his mother threw a party. How she fretted over their house, how she made them clean their rooms. He protested that no one ever ventured inside their bedrooms, but to no avail. He especially detested how it fell on him to entertain the guests, when all he wanted to do was stay in his bedroom until everyone left, or sneak off with Abbas and Kumail and take just one drag. But this time the news of the party piques his interest. Twice, he asks his mother to clarify the date. First, to mark it on his calendar, a little red x. The second time to make absolutely sure he got the day right. Fourteen days until the party. On day eleven, he gets his hair cut, knowing how terrible he looks the first few days after a new one. The last ten days take the longest to pass. When only three days remain, he gathers the courage he needs to find his mother in the kitchen.
“Which families are invited?” he asks, gripping the edge of the counter, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, knowing how unlike him it is to do anything other than complain.
His mother is kneading dough for roti in a large silver bowl. Her cheeks are dusty with flour, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. He had assumed Amira’s family would be invited. But earlier today he panicked and now he has to confirm, just to make sure his haircutting and hoping have not been a waste. Mumma takes her time answering, moves strands of her hair from her face with the back of her hand, leaving behind another streak of flour, graying her eyebrow. His pulse quickens, he is surprised at the insistence of his own heartbeat, he twists his mouth to hide his nervousness.